Wrath of the Forgotten

The scent of olive oil and burning incense filled the great halls of Olympus, but Athena could taste the lie beneath it. A place meant to be eternal, unshaken, divine—yet all she could see now were the cracks forming in its golden pillars. The Fates’ whispers still clung to her mind, slithering through her thoughts like a serpent. "The serpent rises, the waves roar, and wisdom bends like the bough in the storm. The old order crumbles." She had always dismissed prophecy as a tool of the weak-minded, something mortals clung to for guidance when they could not shape their own destiny. But this was not a mortal prophecy. This was a warning. Athena’s grip on her spear tightened as she stood before the vast marble doors of her temple. She had walked these halls for centuries, her name worshipped, her image carved into statues across Greece. And yet, for the first time, she hesitated before stepping inside. Because she knew the truth now. And the truth had fangs. The temple was silent. Dust motes drifted through shafts of light filtering in from the high windows, illuminating the massive statues of Athena herself. The great goddess of wisdom and war, chiseled from marble, unyielding, untouchable. A perfect, immortal symbol of justice. But justice had failed Medusa. Athena’s footsteps echoed as she moved toward the altar. She had performed this ritual countless times—lighting the sacred flame, whispering prayers that only the gods could hear. But tonight, her prayer was not to Olympus. It was to the woman she had condemned. The woman she had abandoned. "I was wrong." The words burned in her throat like swallowed glass, but she forced them out. "Medusa, I was wrong." Silence. A shadow flickered in the dim candlelight. Athena turned, her pulse steady despite the sudden weight in the air. The temple was not empty anymore. A woman stood at the far end of the chamber, cloaked in darkness. Her hair writhed, serpents curling and twisting as though sensing the tension in the room. Her eyes, golden and sharp as a blade’s edge, met Athena’s. Medusa. For centuries, mortals had feared her. Worshipped her name in whispers, prayed they would never meet her gaze. But Athena saw now that Medusa had never been a monster. She had been made into one. "You dare speak my name," Medusa said, her voice as cold as the stone she once turned men into. Athena did not flinch. "Yes." Medusa tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Why?" Athena stepped forward, the air between them thick with unspoken words. "Because I should have fought for you." A bitter laugh escaped Medusa’s lips. "And yet, you were the one who cursed me. Who turned me into a nightmare so men could tell stories about my downfall." The accusation cut deep, but Athena did not waver. "I was a fool. I see that now." For a moment, there was only silence between them, thick with old wounds and shattered truths. Then Medusa spoke. "Then prove it." The sea churned violently, waves slamming against the jagged cliffs of Poseidon’s domain. Beneath the surface, where the light of Olympus did not reach, Amphitrite sat in her gilded cage. The queen of the sea, forgotten by history. Her palace was vast, carved from coral and pearl, shimmering with the bioluminescent glow of creatures lurking in the deep. And yet, it was a prison. It had always been a prison. She had been young when Poseidon first saw her, a nymph with power she did not yet understand. He had called it love. She had called it what it was—a claim. A taking. A theft of the life she might have had. She had played the obedient queen, the silent wife, for far too long. But the ocean remembered who she was before him. And the waves were whispering of a storm. Amphitrite’s fingers traced the delicate silver bands encircling her wrists, symbols of the bonds she had worn for centuries. Poseidon had given them to her as a gift on their wedding day, a gesture meant to symbolize their eternal union. But she knew the truth. They were shackles. A reminder that she was his, bound to the depths while he walked the world above, taking what he pleased. A shadow passed through the water, something dark and fast, and she knew she was no longer alone. Then, from the depths, a figure emerged. Medusa. The gorgon stood before her, hair floating like black tendrils in the currents, her golden eyes gleaming in the deep. And beside her, Athena—the goddess of wisdom, the very one who had condemned her. Amphitrite rose slowly, meeting Athena’s gaze. "You should not be here." "And yet, we are," Medusa said, arms crossed. "We need you, Amphitrite." The queen of the sea let out a hollow laugh. "And why would I help you?" Athena stepped forward. "Because I know what it is to be bound to a throne you did not choose. Because you deserve vengeance as much as we do." Vengeance. The word sent a shiver through the currents, as if the ocean itself had been waiting for it to be spoken. Amphitrite closed her eyes, listening to the sea. It had always known the truth, even when she had tried to forget. Poseidon had never been a god of love. He had been a god of taking. And she was done being taken from. She opened her eyes, the weight of centuries settling into her bones. "Then let us drown the world." The three stood together beneath the crashing waves, three women bound not by blood, but by fury. Medusa, the cursed. Athena, the repentant. Amphitrite, the forgotten. Their power surged through the water, through the very fabric of the world itself. The old order had survived for too long on the suffering of women like them. But the tide was shifting. Olympus would fall. And they would be the ones to bring it down. The ocean trembled as Amphitrite lifted her hands. The waters obeyed her without question, swirling around them with a power that had long been caged. Her rage was the tide, her sorrow the storm. For too long, she had been told her place was beside Poseidon, a silent queen with no will of her own. But she was not his wife. Not anymore. Medusa watched her, arms crossed over her chest, a smirk playing on her lips. “So, the sea witch finally remembers who she is.” Amphitrite turned her golden eyes on her, but there was no venom in her gaze. “And the gorgon finally steps into the world that wronged her.” Athena stood between them, watching their power rise like an oncoming wave. This was the moment she had hoped for—the moment she feared would never come. These were women who had been cast aside, rewritten by history to suit the vanity of gods. And now, they stood together. “Poseidon will come for you,” Athena warned. “You know that.” Amphitrite’s lips curled into something almost amused. “Let him. The sea does not belong to him. It never did.” Medusa tilted her head. “Then what’s the plan? We stand here, hold hands, and hope Olympus crumbles on its own?” Athena’s gaze sharpened. “No. We make the first strike.” She stepped forward, her voice quiet but unshaken. “We do not wait for them to react. We do not play their game. We bring the war to Olympus before they know it’s begun.” Medusa’s smirk widened. “Now you’re speaking my language.” Amphitrite turned, lifting her arms once more. The ocean answered, waves roaring to life as if sensing its queen’s command. “Then let us remind the gods that the women they discarded are far from powerless.” The waters surged, and in the distance, Olympus trembled. The halls of Olympus were still. Not in the way of peace, but in the way of something waiting to break. Zeus sat on his throne, his golden gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sky met the sea. He could feel the disturbance, a ripple through the very bones of the world. Something was coming. Something ancient. Something enraged. A presence entered the hall, and Zeus did not turn. “You feel it too.” Poseidon’s voice was edged with irritation. “She is moving.” Zeus exhaled, his fingers tightening on the arms of his throne. “Which one?” A pause. Then—“All of them.” Zeus finally turned, his expression unreadable. “Then it has begun.” Poseidon’s eyes darkened, the storm brewing behind them. “They are nothing but lost women with a taste for revenge. This will pass.” But Zeus was not so sure. Because in all his centuries of rule, he had never seen the sky and sea move as one. And for the first time in his imm ortal life, he felt the creeping touch of fear.